Declaration
by Lament
Summary: This started out as Clay reflecting on the people in his life. It has become a Webb-Mac story. Chapter 11 is now up.
1. Declaration

Title: Declaration 

Disclaimer: They're not mine.  I'm not making any money.

Warnings: I am Webbie, and I'm intrigued by the chemistry between Mac and Webb.  So be warned:  by the end of this story, we've sailed into Webb/Mac-friendly waters.

*****

Well, it's getting late.  Another year is nearly over.

It's been an odd year.  I'm not quite sure what to make of it.  Of course, I suppose I'm fortunate to have the opportunity to sit here and wax philosophical about these past twelve months in the first place.  Not long ago, I very nearly became a star on the wall of the CIA headquarters.  

And God knows my mother doesn't need to have two people she loves on that wall.

Glancing at the clock, I let out a long breath.  I do a quick inventory of everything I'll need tonight.  The champagne is on ice.  The pasta is tender and ready to serve.  The appropriate CDs are laid out.  It seems that everything is in order for Sarah's arrival.  She should be here in a few minutes.

My relationship with Sarah is perhaps the oddest development of the year.  I've been carrying the proverbial torch for her for some time now, but have always been careful not to let her know.  I probably would never have told her about my feelings if it hadn't been for our near-death experience in Paraguay.  I saw my life slipping away from me, and I didn't want to leave this world with regrets.  So, I spilled out the contents of my heart.

To be honest, I didn't think the relationship would progress once Sarah and I returned home.  I had hoped it would, but I certainly hadn't assumed.  I have no idea where our rapport will lead us now.  Perhaps we will emerge from this time in our lives as close friends.  Perhaps we will become much more.  I'm hoping for the latter.  But whatever happens between us, I'm thankful for the time we've had.

Actually, I've been very lucky with relationships overall.  A decade ago, I had no one in my life but Mother.  That all changed when I found myself working with AJ and his merry band of men for the first time.  I had been the mastermind of ill-fated operation during which the Declaration of Independence was stolen.  By Sarah's uncle, no less. Little did I know all those years ago that I was meeting the people would become the best friends I ever had.  Of course, I don't think I'd ever say that to them.  Rabb and Roberts would probably get all warm and fuzzy on me.  

So much has changed since I first met them.  Roberts is married with two sons now.  He and his wife have had a lot to deal with the past few years.  They lost a daughter, and Roberts lost a leg in the Afghan desert.  He never should have been there in the first place.  People like me are supposed to do the fighting so people like him can live their lives in relative peace.  Of course, he wasn't actually fighting.  He was just trying to help someone.  And still he became a victim of war and weapons.

AJ is about to become an old married man himself.  A few years ago, I never would have believed he and I would be friends.  However, now, AJ is one of the most necessary people in my life.  He understands something about me that Rabb and the others do not.  AJ understands what it means to have the burden of responsibility fall on his shoulders.  He understands what it is to weigh an impossible situation and try to come up with the solution that will save the most lives, even when that solution is unpopular.  In short, AJ understands the reality of my life.

That's something Rabb can't seem to wrap his mind around.  He sees the world in black and white.  He doesn't seem to get that not everyone shares his sense of apple pie morality, and that the bad guys aren't always going to cooperate with us.  I appreciate that about him.  At the same time, however, Rabb's lack of pragmatism makes him a walking headache.  He's like Captain America himself—full of idealism and passion, but living in a world of cynics and battle-worn soldiers.

Of course, my relationship with Rabb is in flux right now.  My growing closeness with Sarah has inflicted a lot of damage to Rabb's and my already stormy friendship. He's always had a tendency to blame me for the problems of the world.  Now, he seems perpetually mad at me.  I hope our bond is strong enough to weather this.

The doorbell jars me back to reality, so I move to the front door and let my guest in.  "Sarah," I smile.  "You look beautiful as usual."

Sarah steps through the doorway and pulls off her coat.  She breaks into a grin. "Flattery at this time of night?  Please continue."

I laugh lightly, wrap my arms around her, kiss her cheek, and then take a step back.  "Mmm.  You smell good."

She takes my arm and guides me over to the couch. "Thank you," she says, sitting down beside me.  "You know, I've been thinking a lot about the changes in our relationship."

I cock my head at her, wondering where this conversation is leading. Perhaps she's already had enough of me, and has chosen to end our relationship. 

Placing a small, silver package into my hand, she says, "Here.  This is just a little something I picked up."

I frown at the package.  "What is it?"  

"Clay, it's customary to open the gift to find out what's in it."   

Smiling, I tear open the paper and remove a wooden picture frame.  

"Turn it over," she says.

I turn the frame over, and then start to laugh.  A framed copy of the Declaration of Independence.  Only Sarah would think of this.

"It's supposed to be symbolic," she grins.

Shaking my head, I embrace her.  "Thank you, Sarah.  I was actually just thinking about that first case."

She nods.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I've been thinking about it a lot.  About where that first meeting has brought us."

"Really?"  I say.  I want to ask her what, if any conclusions she's reached about us, but I don't want to pressure her.  That wouldn't be fair.  Besides, God knows I haven't reached any iron-clad pronouncements about our relationship myself.

Taking my hand in hers, she says, "Clay, I know we were both feeling a lot of intense emotions in Paraguay.  And I don't know how much of what you said there was the result of the situation, and how much you meant."

I start to speak, but she presses a finger on my lips.

"Let me finish, Clay," she says.  "I came into this relationship with you not intending to take it any farther than friendship.  But the more I get to know you, to really know you…" She licks her lips.  "The more I get to know you, the more I fall in love you."

Sarah takes her finger away from my lips, but I couldn't speak if I wanted to.  

She gazes at me for a moment, and then says, "Say something."

Still unable to form a coherent thought, I lean forward and place a kiss on her cheek, and then one on her lips.  

Finally, I glance at the clock and realize we've crossed the threshold into another year.  "So," I finally say, my voice unsteady, "I think this is going to be a good year."


	2. Occupational Hazards

Title: Declaration

Chapter 2

*****

"You're mad at me."

I turn my head to look at Clay.  He's sitting next to me, leaning his head back on the sofa, and gazing fixedly at me with those intense eyes of his.  Undoubtedly, he's trying to figure out what I'm thinking, and gauge how much trouble he's in with me.

Clay just got home from…somewhere.  He got called away to save the world, and in the process, managed to miss a date with me. 

I sigh.  "I'm not mad."

"Sarah," he says.  "You're upset with me because we had plans and I was a no-show.  And you have every right to feel exactly the way you do."

Letting out a half-laugh, I say, "Clay, I'm not upset with you because you missed a date.  It happens."

"So," he says slowly, taking my hand, "you're upset because I didn't tell you I was leaving the country."  

I don't answer.  Instead, I lay my head on his shoulder.  I really don't want to talk about what I've been feeling lately.  I just want to enjoy a nice evening.

"Sarah," he persists.  "I had to leave suddenly.  I couldn't get a message to you."  

"Clay, it's all right."  I squeeze his hand.  "Can we not talk about this?"

We sit quietly, pressed against each other, enjoying the simple intimacy.  Clay smells good tonight.  But then, he usually smells good.  I nuzzle his neck, trying to drink in his scent.  

Pulling me closer, he says, "I haven't eaten all day, but I don't want to move.  This feels so good."

"I could cook," I say.

"But that would involve _you_ moving."  He plants two quick kisses on my lips.  "I don't want that either."

Laughing softly, I pat his knee.  "Well, if you can pry one arm free to hand me the phone, I could order pizza."

Smiling, he feigns a long-suffering sigh.  "Oh, I suppose."

He's exhausted, and I wonder to myself how long he's been up.  Before Clay and I starting seeing each other, I didn't realize what he puts himself through.  It's not as if I've never pulled an all-nighter.  But Clay will go for two days without sleep, finally get into bed, and then the phone will ring, and before I know it, he's dragging himself out the door to get on a plane or meet a contact.

"You okay?"  He says.  

"I'm fine," I say.  

"You tensed up."

"I was just thinking how tired you look."  I take the phone from his hand.  "What do you want on this?"

He narrows his eyes.  "Ham and pineapple."  

As I order the pizza, Clay watches me intently, absentmindedly tugging on his bottom lip.  After I hang up, he stretches and pulls himself into a sitting position.  "Want to talk now?"

I let out a breath.  "Clay, I'm not mad."

"You _do _have something on your mind."  He reaches out to caress my cheek.  "I'm not going to let this go. So, you might as well tell me."

"You're stubborn."

"I'm tenacious.  Is it Harm?"

"Why does everything have to be about Harm?"

He shrugs.  "Because you've had this weird treading water thing with him for almost a decade."

"You have a point," I say, smiling guiltily. "But in this case, it's not Harm."

He nods.  "Then it's the job.  My job."

I hate his job, and he knows it.  I hate it because it could get him killed or hurt.  I saw that firsthand in Paraguay.  I hate it because it takes him away from me.  And I hate it because he can't share it with me.  

But most of all, I hate Clay's job because of what it does to him.  When I first met him, Clay was far from innocent. But there was still some part of him that was relatively untouched by the violence he saw everyday.  Some part of him that was almost naïve.  But when we were in Paraguay, Clay shot a man.  In retrospect, he had a good reason for doing it—the man was a leak, and could've gotten us killed.  But what bothered me was the off-hand way Clay went about it.  As if he was flipping off a light switch.  I hate knowing that this man I love can be so casual about the taking of a human life.

"It's the job," I confirm.

"Sarah," he says quietly. "you knew what I did for a living when you started to spend time with me."

"I know."  I take his hand.  "It's just—How has you mother done this all these years?  Waiting.  Not knowing. Seeing what it does to you."

He frowns.  "I honestly don't know.  She hates my job as much as you hate it. But I guess she learned to live with it after years with my father."  He licks his lips.  "Sarah, do you want me quit?  I will."

I stare at him.  I honestly believe Clay would quit if I asked him to.  But even though part of me does want him to leave the Agency, the rest of me knows how impossible that is. Clay's right.  I knew who he was when I got into the relationship.

"Clay, if I asked you to quit, I'd be asking you to become a completely different man.  I don't want that."

He leans forward.  "And I don't want to lose you over my career."

I kiss him.  "You're not losing me.  I'm just trying to learn how handle this."

"I love you," he says slowly, as if he's trying to make sure I comprehend the depth of the words.

Threading my fingers through his hair, I plant a kiss on his lips.  "I love you, too."

He pulls me into an embrace, and I can feel his breath becoming staggered.  Our relationship is new, and we're both still having some doubts about whether or not we're going to make it.  I hate Clay's job, but I do love him.  And I know Clay loves me.  Somehow, I have to figure out how to share the man I love with the whole country, and how to separate who is he at work with the man I hold in my arms at night.


	3. Desert Nights

Title: Declaration

Chapter 3

*****

I'm wide awake and staring at the "ceiling" of our tent.  It's another cold night, but by now, I'm used to how cold desert nights can be.  It's not the cold that's keeping me awake.  It's the gnawing fear that I won't be able to hold onto the warmth I have at home.

I nudge the sleeping man next to me. "Gunny," I whisper.  "Wake up."

He jolts awake, and immediately reaches for his weapon.

"Calm down," I say.  "I just want to talk."

"What?" He glances around the tent, as if he's trying to spot some unseen menace.  Then, he places his gun back onto the ground.  "What? he repeats sleepily.

"Do you have anyone at home?" I ask.  

"What?"  He shakes his head, trying to wake up.  Gunny has a tendency to be monosyllabic until he's fully awake.

"A girl." I say.  "Do you have a significant other at home?" I'm pretty sure he doesn't.  I never hear him talk about anyone.

He rubs his eyes.  "No.  I don't have much luck with long-term relationships."

I sigh. "Neither do I."

"Are you okay, sir?" He asks, rolling onto his back.

I prop myself up on one elbow.  "Yeah," I say.

"You seem melancholy tonight."

"Well, Gunny," I say. "No offense, but you're not the Marine I want to be sleeping next to tonight."

"Are you sure, sir?" he grins. "Some of the girls at the local watering hole tell me I have a cute smile."

"It's charming," I laugh.  

Gunny and I are rapidly becoming close friends.  I remember him being at the JAG headquarters in Falls Church, but I never really got to know him until we worked together in the Afghan desert.  After that. he followed me to Paraguay, where he went undercover to track down a terrorist named Sadik.  Sadik got away, but Gunny wound up saving my life.  Now, all these months later, we're lying next to each other in a tent, in the middle of the desert, on another mission.  I appreciate Gunny, both for his professionalism, and for his amiable demeanor.  Besides, he seems to genuinely like me, which is an uncommon occurrence.  

"Trouble between you and Colonel Mackenzie, sir?"  he asks.

Letting out a breath, I say, "I honestly don't know."  I pull at the fabric of my sleeping bag.  "I'm just talking."

"Is it the job, sir?"

"Yes," I say, sitting up.  "She complicates my life, Gunny.  My life used to be simple.  I worked.  I went home.  I spent time with Mother.  I jumped at Rabb's beck and call.  It was all very routine and uncomplicated."

"She makes life more interesting, though.  Doesn't she?"

I nod.  "Oh, yeah.  But I think _my life is a little too interesting for her."_

"Did she actually say this to you, sir?  Or are you assuming that's what she's feeling?"

I cock my head to consider this, and my mind drifts back to the last time Sarah and I broached the topic.  "Well, yes and no.  She told me she needs to 'get used to sharing me with the whole country.'"

"Well, it sounds like she's trying."

"I guess."  I tug my bottom lip.  "It's just that I've gone through this with my mother.  She loathes the job."

He rolls onto one side until he's facing me.  "And has your mother ever told you to get the hell out of her life?"

I frown. "No.  Of course not."

"Well, then," he yawns.  "Why assume Colonel Mackenzie will turn and run?  She _is_ a Marine, sir.  We face tougher obstacles than your job while we're still in training."

"Is that so?" I grin.  "I guess you're right."

He rolls onto his stomach.  "Yes, sir."  Stretching, he says, "Sir?"

"Yeah?"

"Go to sleep or I'll knock you out."

Smiling, I lay back, close my eyes, and let the desert night lull me to sleep.


	4. Ups and Downs

Title: Declaration

Chapter 4

Author's Notes:  This takes place after "Take it Like a Man."

*****

When the door to Clay's apartment opens, I'm greeted by someone other than the man I expected.

"Gunny," I say, smiling.  I haven't seen him since Clay was in the hospital, but I know he and Clay have been working together.  To tell the truth, knowing Gunny is with Clay when he's out saving the world makes me sleep a little better at night.

"Hello, Ma'am," he says cheerfully.  He steps to one side, opening the door wider so I can enter the apartment.

"Where's your partner in crime?"  I ask.

Gunny laughs.  "He's…packing, Ma'am."

Great.  He's leaving me again.

"Can you tell me where you're heading, Gunny?"  

I know he can't.

"Not specifically, Ma'am."  

I glance at the side table next to Clay's favorite chair.  There's an almost-empty bottle of wine and an empty glass littering the surface.  Either Clay never cleaned up from the other night, or he's been hitting the bottle again.

I wasn't aware he was drinking until he got back from the last mission.  I don't think he's an alcoholic.  I really don't.  But he's trying to use the alcohol to cover up his pain.  And if he keeps doing that, I think he could wind up with a drinking problem.

I should confront him about it, but I just can't.

"How has he been?" I ask quietly.

"Ma'am?"

"Clay.  How has he been?"

Gunny's averts his eyes.  "He's _your _boyfriend, Ma'am.  And I haven't seen him in several days."

"Gunnery Sergeant," I say authoritatively. "You're probably with him more than I am."  

He looks at the bottle on the table.  "He has his ups and downs, Ma'am."

"More downs than ups?"

Gunny frowns.  "I would think he has the right to have some problems, Ma'am.  Considering what he's been through."

Clay _does _have a right to have problems.  But to hear Clay tell it, he's doing wonderfully.

I soften my voice.  "I'm just concerned about him, Gunny.  That's all."

"Well, it's good to know you're concerned, Ma'am."

I narrow my eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Exhaling, Gunny crosses his arms.  He licks his lips and opens his mouth to answer.  But before he can, the spy in question walks into the room.

"Sarah," he says evenly.  "It's good to see you."  He walks over and kisses me on the cheek.  He looks guiltily at the suitcase in his hand.  "I was going to call, Sarah."

"It's your job, Clay."  I kiss him softly on the lips.  "Don't feel guilty."

"This isn't the best time for me to leave," he says.

No, it really isn't. Clay was tortured almost to death in Paraguay eight months ago.  I recently shot the man who did it.  I guess I had problems dealing with it, because both Clay and the Admiral wanted me to go to a shrink.  I did, and it was pretty much a waste of my time.    
  
The thing that bothers me is that I'm not supposed to feel ashamed if _I_ need time to get over what happened.  But Clay…I'm supposed to just accept that he bounced back like nothing ever went down in Paraguay. 

"Go save the world," I say.

Clay glances hesitantly from me to Gunny.  "If you need anything," he says.  "Go see my mother.  Okay?  She wants to spend some time with you, anyway."

Oh perfect.  

"Be safe," I whisper.  Then I turn to Gunny.  "Take care of him, Marine."

"I will, Ma'am," he says.  

I follow the two men out the door and into the parking lot.  I hate seeing Clay go.  I hate it.  I need him right now, and he needs me.  But we're both too damn stubborn to admit it most of the time.  

We're both terrible with the emotional aspects of a relationship.  I know he loves me, and wonder of wonders, I love him.  I never intended it to happen, but it did.  But as much as we're in love, I'm afraid we're going to completely destroy each other.

As Gunny loads their things into his car, Clay wraps his arms around me and kisses me passionately.  Then he pulls back and gazes into my eyes. After a few seconds, he lets me go and climbs into the passenger side of Gunny's SUV.

I wave as they drive away.  Then I wrap my arms around myself and start to wait for Clay's return.


	5. Albuquerque

Title: Declaration

Chapter 5

Author's Notes: In one episode of _JAG_, Clay could speak Spanish.  In a later episode, he couldn't.  I'm going with the initial episode, so in this story, Clay can speak Spanish. ; )

Warnings: This chapter is warm and fluffy.

*****

"Where are you?"

I lean back on the salmon-colored floral couch and take a sip of tequila.  "I'm in New Mexico, Sarah!" I say cheerfully.  "At Gunny's sister's house."

"What are you doing there?"  Sarah sounds irritated.  But considering I'm supposed to be on a mission in the Middle East, and instead, I'm sitting in a comfortable living room in Albuquerque, listening to music, and eating enchiladas…I guess she would be.

"Gunny was injured during our…" I look around to see if Miss Galindez is lurking around.  "…assignment."

"How bad?" Sarah asks, concerned.

"Not too bad," I say.  "He hurt his leg.  I brought him back to New Mexico so his sister could fuss over him."

"Are you hurt?"

I gaze down at my bandaged arm.  "Just a flesh wound."

"What do you mean by a flesh wound?"

I shift my body, trying to get comfortable.  Gunny's sister walks by, muttering something in Spanish about how every time someone visits from DC, her brother comes home with a bullet in his body.

"I'm from Virginia, actually," I say, grinning.

Miss Galindez stares at me, startled.  Apparently, Gunny forgot to mention I can speak Spanish.

"Clayton," Sarah says forcefully.    
  
"Sorry, honey," I say.  

"What do you mean by a flesh wound?"

Biting my lip, I say, "It hurt my hand.  I'm fine."

"The hand you hurt in Paraguay?"

I wince.  "The left hand."

"Are you okay?"

"It's a scratch."

A scratch caused by a bullet.

"Mr. Webb?"  Gunny's sister sits on the couch next to me.

"Miss Galindez, please call me Clay."

"Call me Maria, then."

"Maria," I say with a smile.

She returns the smile.  "Clay, would you like some more enchiladas?  I'm getting some for Victor."

"Well," I grin.  "They _were_ good.  You're spoiling me."

"I think you're already spoiled," she says, grinning.  Then she stands up and walks into the kitchen.

_Oh God,_ I think.  _I'm flirting.  I'm on the phone with my girlfriend, and I'm flirting._

"So, honey," I say into the phone.  "I should be home tomorrow."

"Will that be all right with Maria?" She asks.

She heard me.  Fabulous.

"Jealous?" I ask.

"Don't push your luck, Webb," she says.  I hear a hint of amusement in her voice.  

"Are you talking to the Colonel, sir?"  

I glance up and see Gunny standing by the couch.  He's on a pair of crutches, but he looks like he's about fall over.

"You look unsteady, Galindez," I say. "Sit down."

"That would probably be a good idea, sir," he says, plunking down beside me.  

"Your sister's going to kill you if she finds you hobbling around on crutches."

He grins.  "I'll blame you."

"Funny."

"Say hi to Colonel Mackenzie for me, sir."

"For God's sake, Galindez.  Don't you think it's about time you called me Clay?"  I put the phone up to my ear.  "Galindez says hi."  
  
"Let me talk to him," Sarah says.

I hand the phone to Gunny.  

At that moment, Maria returns with a plate of food.  When she sees Gunny sitting on the couch, she smacks him on the shoulder. "What are you doing out of bed?" She asks.

Gunny glances at her, trying his best to look offended.  "I'm talking to a superior officer, Maria."

Her face softens.  "Oh," she half-whispers.  "Sorry."

Gunny shoots me a mischievous grin.  I appreciate a man who knows how to punch his sister's buttons.

Maria starts to place plates of food in front of us.  

"No ma'am," Gunny says.  "It's just a flesh wound.  He's all right."

I roll my eyes.

"No ma'am."  Gunny laughs.  "Yes, he definitely is, ma'am."

I frown. "I definitely am what?"

Grinning, Gunny hands me the phone.  "She wants to talk to you."

"I'm definitely what?" I say to Sarah.

She laughs.  "Never mind.  So," she says.  "You're coming home tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"You're spending the night there?"

"Yes, I was planning to stay here."

"Well," she says lightly.  "Try to behave yourself.  See you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," I say.

I can feel Gunny and Maria watching me, and a blush rushes to my cheeks.  "What are you two looking at?" I ask.

"I think you're in love," Gunny teases.

He's not wrong.  


	6. Harm

Title: Declaration

Chapter 6

*****

"Okay, do you have the phone records for November 7th?"  I ask.

Harm stretches across the floor and yanks a piece of paper out from under our empty pizza box.  "Here," he says.  Leaning back on the balls of his hands, he grins.  "It's been a while since we worked a case together."

"Well," I say.  "I think the Admiral may have gotten the impression we don't work well together."

"Come on, Mac," he grimaces. 

Harm and I got stuck working a high-profile murder case together.  I wanted it.  He wanted it.  Finally, the Admiral got tired of listening to us fight, and gave it to both of us.  Maybe he's secretly hoping we'll kill each other.

"So," Harm says, stretching out until he's laying flat on the floor.  "How's your other half?"

I let out a breath.  "Harm, get over it."

Harm acts like a jealous boyfriend when it comes to Clay and me.  Truthfully, Harm and I were never really together.  There was a time when I wanted that.  In fact, I wanted that earlier this year.  Even when Clay and I first got together, part of me still wanted Harm.

Then I fell in love with Clay.  Completely.  Totally.  Irrevocably.

The funny part of it is—I didn't see it coming.  I don't think Clay did either.  Mostly, I think we were just seeking solace in each other after Paraguay.  I think we needed to share each other's strength, to take comfort in the fact that we both went through what we did and came out alive. But as we got to know each other, our friendship turned to close friendship, and that turned to love.  And now it's like breathing . . . I need him.  

"Mac?"

"Mmm?" 

"What?  Are you daydreaming about him now?"

"Harm, come on," I say.  "You and Clay used to be friends.  What happened?"

He stares at me for a few moments.  Then he sputters something that almost sounds like a laugh.  "Is that what we are?  We're friends?"

"Yeah, you used to be.  Come on, you stood in the Admiral's office and defended his integrity.  You went after him that time he faked his death."

Harm sits up and wraps his arms around his knees.  "How long has he been carrying a torch for you?"

"What?" I ask.

"This thing you two have.  I remember he had your dress size that time we went into the embassy."

I sigh.  "Harm, Clay and I found each other."  I scoot closer to him.  "When we came back from Paraguay, we were both a mess."  And we still are, but I'm not telling Harm that.  "We needed each other.  I don't think either of us meant to fall in love.  It happened a little at a time."

He stares.

"What?" I say.

"You're in love with him?"

I lick my lips.  How could I be so stupid?  Clay and I have told each other how we feel, but we've pretty much kept to ourselves since we started dating.   I mean, people know we're dating, but I haven't really discussed my feelings for Clay with anyone.   

 "Yeah," I say. "I'm love with him."

Harm stares out the window the evening sky.  He doesn't say anything for a long time.  Finally, he clears his throat and says, "So, uh . . . this isn't another Mic Brumby."

"No."

"Oh."

"Harm," I say.  "I'm sorry."

"For what?  For falling in love?" He picks up a piece of paper. "You're doing the phone records for the 7th.  I got the 6th.  You up for burning the midnight oil?"

"Harm, come on."  I cover his hand with mine.

"What?"

"Let's sort this out."

He pries his hand away. "Sort what out?"

"Have you even talked to Clay since he was released from the hospital?"

"Nope."

"Maybe you should call him."

He stands up and walks into the kitchen.  "Why?  So we can have a beer and discuss women?"

"All right," I say curtly.  "Let's get to work then."

"Does he know you're here?"  Harm asks accusingly.

"No," I say.  "He wouldn't mind."  

Actually, I have no idea how he would feel.  Harm is something of a gray area for us right now.  Clay is different from Mic in a lot of ways, but the biggest difference is that Clay and Harm were already friends when Clay and I started dating.  To be with me, Clay risks losing one of the few friends he has.

"So, where is he?" Harm asks.

"New Mexico—at Gunny's sister's house.  He's coming back tomorrow."

Harm narrows his eyes.  "Hanging around with Gunny at lot, isn't he?"

I nod.  "They're partners, I guess."

"Hmm."

"What?"

He sits back down on the floor.  "Webb's forging a lot of new relationships.  You.  Gunny."

"Wait a minute," I laugh.  "Are you upset that Clay is getting close to someone other than you?"

"We were never close."

Harm starts digging through the papers we have strewn across the floor, but I don't think he's really looking for anything.  It never occurred to me before, but Harm probably feels like he's losing Clay just as much as me.  Clay always went to Harm when he needed something, and Harm reciprocated whenever he needed some Agency help on a case.  Maybe it's not just junior high school jealously he feels.  Maybe he feels like he's being ushered out of my life, _and_ Clay's.  

"Harm?"

"Yeah?"

"Call him."

He rolls his eyes.  "Why?"  
  
I let out a breath.  "Because he needs you." 


	7. Bonds Unbroken

Title: Declaration

Chapter 7

*****

I should call Sarah.  I really should.  She has to know I'm home by now, so if I don't call, she's going to wonder why.

My plane from Albuquerque landed two hours ago.  Instead of calling anyone to pick me up, I grabbed a cab and headed straight home.  Part of me wants the comfort and assurance of having Sarah here with me tonight.  God knows I don't want to be alone with my dark thoughts. 

But at the same time, I want _do_ to be alone, because then at least I don't have to emote about my feelings.

Rubbing my eyes, I pour another drink.

About then, I hear a knock at my door. It can't be Gunny, since he's still in New Mexico, and Mother usually calls first.  So I'm guessing it's either Sarah or Tim.  Reluctantly, I pull myself out of the chair and trudge, drink in hand, toward the source of the noise.

When I swing open the door, I'm surprised to find Harm standing there.  I haven't seen Harm since I was in the hospital after Paraguay.  "Rabb," I say.

"Webb.  Can I come in?"

I motion him inside, and then take a swallow of my drink.  "What can I do for you, Rabb?" 

Harm ambles through the door and starts wandering around the room.  "It's different," he says.  "You used to have a bust of Beethoven or somebody."

"Well, a lot of my things are still packed away at Mother's house," I say.  "You tend to downsize when you've been banished to South America."

He frowns at me.  "Do you still blame me for that?"

I sigh wearily.  "I never blamed you for that Rabb.  Bringing you the tape was my decision."  I take a drink, and then add as an afterthought, "The tin man _does_ have a heart."

Harm shakes his head, and half-smiling, plunks himself down on the couch.  "Am I interrupting anything?"

I think about saying something sarcastic, but decide against it.  "I just got home, actually.  What do need?"

He shrugs.  "Nothing.  I just came by to talk."

Raising my eyebrows, I drop myself into my chair.  "What do you want to talk about?"

He picks at the seam of his jeans.  "How are you doing?"

"What?"

"How are you doing, Webb?  You okay?"

Letting out a long-suffering breath, I say, "Rabb, are you trying to bond with me?"

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.  "I'm trying to visit a friend."

I laugh out loud.  "Since when do you drop by to visit me?"

He stands up. "You know what?  I don't know why I bothered."

"Oh, sit down, Rabb."  I lean forward. "You usually only come by when you want something."

His jaw tightens slightly.  "You're the second person to tell me that today."

"Who was the first?"  I ask with interest.

"Remember Teresa Coulter?  You met her in Afghanistan."

I nod.

"Well," he continues.  "She's been home for a while, and she wanted me to go visit her.  Stay for a few days.  She's been wanting me to go see her for years, but I haven't gotten around to it. She called me this morning and told me I'm a lukewarm friend."  

I nearly choke on my drink.  "Lukewarm friend?  That's good.  I knew I liked her."

"Yeah," he flashes a brief, self-deprecating smile.  "What did you do to your hand?"

I glance at my still-bandaged wrist.  "It's a flesh wound."

"A flesh wound," he says suspiciously.

"That's right, Rabb."

 "So, do you love her?" Harm says suddenly.  

"Yeah," I say.  "I do."

"Okay."

I expect more—maybe a sardonic comment or an irate threat.  But instead, Harm just bites his bottom lip and nods.

"So," he says.  "I want to ask you something."  Leaning forward to rifle through the book of impressionist art I have on my coffee table, he asks, "Why didn't you ask me to go to Paraguay with you?"

Paraguay.  Number one on my list of least favorite things to talk about.

I take a long sip of wine.  "Courtroom theatrics aside, Rabb, I didn't think you could play a pregnant woman."

He glares.  "Why didn't you ask me to go to Paraguay _in addition_ to Mac?"

"What would the good people of DC done without their resident superhero?"

I've entered smart-ass territory, and I know it.  Mother says I tend to rely on sarcasm to shield me from unpleasant emotions.  She says I get that particular trait from her.

"Webb . . ."

Letting out a breath, I say, "The Agency has been coming down pretty hard on me about you.  They say I'm too . . . close to you."

He narrows his eyes at me.  "So, you were trying to put some distance between us."

I nod.  

"Rabb, you know, if I had taken you with me, you wouldn't have been able to come in and save our lives.  I owe you."

"Nah," he says, waving his hand.  "_I _still owe _you_ into the next millennium and then some for Jason Magida."

I smile.  "I haven't heard that name in a long time.  Those were good times."

"Yeah," he laughs softly.

I run my index finger along the rim of my glass.  Those were some of the best days of my life.  I was young, relatively innocent, and Harm and Sarah had just become integral parts of my life.  For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel alone.

"Clay," Harm says.  "You know, you're really guzzling that stuff."  He motions at my wine bottle.

I pick up the bottle and frown.  It's half-empty.  I can't imagine when I had time to drink so much.

I set the container down on the table and lick my lips.  "I'm going to die in the line of duty, you know."

"Don't say that."

"It's true."

"Dammit, Clay," he says impatiently. "You could take a desk job."   

"I can't just let sit by while guys like Sadik Fahd destroy people's lives."

He stares at me, a look of sympathy washing across his face.  "There are other people to do the job.  You've earned a break, Clay."

I get up out of my chair and plunk myself down on the couch beside Harm.  Shaking my head, I say, "I'm dead inside anyway."

Harm turns to face me.  "What do you mean?"

I think about how to answer him for a long time, but I just can't.  I've locked everything so deep inside that I can't seem to get to it now.  Finally, I say, "I don't know."


	8. Party

Title: Declaration  
  
Chapter 8  
  
Author's Notes: This takes place before "Trojan Horse."

---------

"Hello there, Ma'am!"  
  
"Gunny," I say brightly. "Feeling better?"  
  
"Yes, Ma'am," he says as he limps into Clay's living room. "It was just a flesh wound."  
  
I cross my arms. "Well, now, you sound like Clay. Tell me, Gunny. Do all you cloak-and-dagger types get your answers from some sort of spy handbook?"  
  
He grins cockily. "Yes, Ma'am. The Handy Book of Common Phrases for Spies."  
  
Shaking my head, I laugh softly. "I think my boyfriend is having an influence on you personality. So," I say. "Have you come to steal Clay away from me?" I smooth my hands along the seams of my evening gown, not- so-subtly trying to point out that Clay and I have plans tonight.  
  
The corners of Gunny's mouth curl into a smile. I can practically hear the smart-alecky comments swirling around in his head. Finally, he says, "Don't worry, Ma'am. I just came to bring Clay some intel on Mrs. Webb's party."  
  
"Intel?" I raise my eyebrows. "Are we expecting a military assault?" With Clay around, I wouldn't doubt it.  
  
"More like an assault from various ex-girlfriends," Clay says cheerfully as he bounds in from the bedroom. Pulling on the sleeves of his tux, he asks, "Victor, what've we got?"  
  
"Well, Clay," Gunny says, handing him a notebook. "Here is the anticipated guest list. You mother says the only problem area might be Rachel Loftin."  
  
"Ah," Clay says.  
  
"Rachel who?" I ask, placing on hands on my hips.  
  
"However," Gunny continues. "Mrs. Webb says that she is currently dating a doctor."  
  
Clay licks his lips and nods. "Good."  
  
"Mrs. Webb also says to remind you that you could still go to medical school."  
  
Clay chuckles. It's good to hear him laugh.  
  
"Thank you, Victor," Clay says. "So what are your plans for this evening?"  
  
"I thought I might catch a movie," he says.  
  
Clay nods. "Alone?"  
  
Gunny grins. "Unfortunately, sir."  
  
Clapping Gunny on the back, Clay says, "Listen, give me a call on my cell phone at about 9:00. That way, we'll have a ready-made excuse to duck out it's boring."  
  
"Clayton!" I say. "You would do that to your own mother?"  
  
"Sarah, Mother's been known to duck out of her own social events on occasion."

---------

Taking a sip of mineral water, I glance around the room. People are milling around, chatting amiably about politics and business, and munching on caviar. Clay is on the other side of the room talking with a congressman whose name I can't seem to recall. Clay is standing stiff as a board, his arms clamped behind his back. When he catches my glaze, he rolls his eyes. I imagine that when Clay gets that phone call at 9:00, we'll be rushing off on "pressing business."  
  
"So, Sarah," says an aristocratic voice. "Are you having a nice time?"  
  
I turn to Mrs. Webb and plaster on my best phony smile. "It's a lovely party, Mrs. Webb."  
  
"Oh, really, Sarah," she drawls. "Call me Porter. And you don't have to pretend to have a good time. I am bored out of my mind."  
  
I smile at my hostess, and this time it's genuine. "Why on earth do you have these parties if you don't enjoy them?"  
  
She grins. When Mrs. Webb smiles like that, she looks like her son. "One has certain responsibilities when one is a member of my social class, Sarah. On the positive note, I should be able to talk most of these people into donating money to a very deserving homeless shelter."  
  
I glance over at Clay, who is now talking to a trio of stuffy-looking elderly men. It figures. We finally get a night together and we're spending it apart. Letting out a breath, I take a drink of mineral water.  
  
"You're good for him, you know," Mrs. Webb says suddenly.  
  
I glance at her. "I'd like to think so."  
  
She smiles. "You are. He's more at peace when he's with you."  
  
At peace? Then why is he still having nightmares? "He has some bad days."  
  
Nodding, Mrs. Webb, takes me by the arm and leads me gently into her study. "Sarah, he loves you."  
  
"I know. I love him too." I still can't get used to saying that. "It's just . . . how do you live with it?"  
  
"With loving a spy?" She lowers herself onto the brown leather couch. "It's difficult. But . . . you just do."  
  
I shake my head. "But I hate what this lifestyle is doing to him. I'm scared for him."  
  
"I am too," she says grimly. "I went through this with Clayton's father, and now I'm going through it with Clayton. But you know." She motions for me to sit next to her. "The difference between Neville and Clayton is that Clayton has a network of support. People who love him. Neville had colleagues."  
  
"He had you and Clay."  
  
"He could've had Clayton and me. He chose to keep us at distance."  
  
I let out a long breath. "He won't talk to me. I don't know if he's trying to protect me, or if he's just too afraid to open up to me."  
  
Mrs. Webb takes my hand. "Probably a little bit of both."  
  
I swallow. "I feel like we're heading toward something significant. A turning point."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I think that if Clay doesn't come home soon, he's going to be swallowed up by that life. Just swallowed up."  
  
Mrs. Webb doesn't say anything. She just squeezes my hand and rubs my shoulder. "It's all right, Sarah."  
  
Suddenly, for the first time, I realize I'm crying. I can't let Clay see me like this. Opening my purse, I search for a tissue.  
  
"Dear, let me get you something," Mrs. Webb says. She jumps off the couch and returns with a box of tissues. I have to admit, Clay's mother is easier to talk to than I would've guessed. I've been rather intimidated by her, but here I am sobbing in front of her, and pouring my heart out.  
  
A light knock on the door snaps me out of my reverie. "Mother? Sarah?"  
  
Damn. Now he's going to see that I've been crying.  
  
Clay gingerly pushes the door open. When he sees my face, he bites his bottom lip and walks over to me. "Sarah, what's wrong?"  
  
I don't answer. I just wrap my arms around him and hold on.  
  
Mrs. Webb stands up. "I should go be an attentive hostess." She leans down and gives me a hug. Then, he turns to Clay, kisses him on the cheek, and says, "Clayton, forget what you are for one night."  
  
He nods. "Actually, Mother, I've received a call. Sarah and I have to leave. There's a matter to which we must attend."  
  
She pats his cheek, and smiling knowingly, says, "Of course, dear."  
  
After Mrs. Webb leaves the room, Clay sits down beside me. By this time, my tears have abated, but my cheeks are stained with the evidence of my outburst.  
  
"I thought we were having a good night," he says tentatively.  
  
"We are. I'm just . . . I've just been feeling . . . uneasy."  
  
"About us?"  
  
"Yes and no." I lay my head on his shoulder. "I love you Clay. But I . . ." My voice trails off.  
  
"Maybe I could take some time off."  
  
"I'd love that," I say. "But they won't let you."  
  
He kisses my cheek. "Sarah, do you want me to walk away?"  
  
"From the Agency? I can't ask you to do that."  
  
He gazes at me. Then he asks hesitantly, "From you?"  
  
A wave of panic hits me. I sit up and take his face in my hands. "Don't you dare walk away from me. Don't you dare, Clayton." 


	9. Wine and Women

Title: Declaration

Chapter 9

Spoilers: Anything before "Hail and Farewell" is fair game.

-----

Gulping the remainder of my drink, I set my glass down on the table with a thud. Leaning forward, I say, "First, she tells me she can't handle the job. Then…then, she says if I leave it, I won't be the man she loves. What the hell is that?"

Victor leans back in his chair and takes a bite of pizza. "She's just reacting, Clay. She'll calm down."

"Give me that bottle," I say, frowning.

Scooting the wine bottle across the table, Victor says, "Clay, think about it. How would you react if Colonel Mackenzie's life was always in danger?"

"She works with Rabb. Her life _is_ always in danger."

A smile ghosts across Victor's face. "My point is that Colonel Mackenzie is the one left home waiting. She probably feels powerless when she doesn't know where you are. She's kind of a take-charge woman, you know."

Filling my glass to the brim with wine, I narrow my eyes. "I suppose."

For a moment, my mind drifts back to my childhood. I remember how helpless I felt when my father would disappear for days, weeks, and months.

"And I got a lecture from Mother," I say, "She says I should…hang up my cape." I take a drink. "My mother's a funny woman."

Victor grins. "Well, consider yourself lucky. My sisters have no idea what I do for a living." He pulls a piece of cheese off his pizza and shoves it into his mouth. "I mean, they nag me all the same, but they don't know what they're nagging me about."

Smiling, I pour the last of my drink down my throat. "All right, what was your point again?"

He frowns. "That's a good question."

Smirking, I say, "Well—"

Just then, Victor cuts me off. "I got it. My point is that you don't have to hide who you are." He nods, apparently satisfied. "That was my point."

"True," I chuckle lightly, "But Mother and Sarah are robbed of the blissful ignorance of thinking I have a normal job."

"My sisters know I don't have a normal job," Victor grins, "Maria refers to you as 'that James Bond-type from Virginia.'"

I let out my first real laugh in days. "Maybe we should recruit her for the Agency."

Smiling, Victor takes a sip of his lemonade. "I wouldn't worry too much about the Colonel, Clay. Just try to be extra-romantic. Make her feel special while you _are_ here."

"Wine her and dine her?" I smirk. "Without the wine of course."

Victor grins. "More or less, Clay." He leans forward as if to tell me a secret. "You've got to do _something_. I think she's starting to get jealous of all the time you spend with me."

"Homewrecker," I say dramatically.

"I'm telling you, with these movie star good looks…"

"Oh, come on!" I throw a crumpled-up napkin at him.

Our laughter subsides, and we sit in relative silence for a while. Finally, Victor tentatively says, "Have you thought about seeing someone? I mean, maybe if—"

"Whoa," I say, "I've already had this lecture from Tim Fawkes. I don't need it from you."

"I'm not lecturing you," he insists, "I'm just saying that maybe if you talked to someone about your problems…"

"You're my best friend, Galindez," I say, "That's what you're for."

He crosses his arms. "Fine, then. Talk to me."

"We are talking," I spit, "Try to keep up."

Victor points at me. "No, you're grumbling about your love life, sure. But you're going nowhere near the real issue."

"Which is?"

"Paraguay."

I swallow the rest of my wine, refill the glass, drain that one, and then pour another drink.

"Paraguay is not the excuse for everything," I say confidently.

"Then why are you trying to numb yourself?" Victor asks.

I glare. "Because I can."

"Because you can?" Victor shakes his head. "Good one, Clay. You know what I think?"

"I don't care what you think."

Victor ignores me and presses on. "I think they put you back in the field too soon."

"Oh, I was off for months," I snap. "What more did you want?"

"I want you to talk about what's bothering—"

"You sound like—"

He raises his voice above mine. "I want you to talk about what's bothering you instead of drinking like a fish."

I think Rabb and I had this conversation.

"Right now, Vic, _you're _bothering me."

Without warning, Victor snatches the half-empty wine bottle from the table and walks briskly into the kitchen.

"What the hell are you doing?" I ask, jumping out of my seat to follow.

When I reach the kitchen, I find Victor emptying the contents of the bottle into the sink.

I take a step forward and grab his shoulder. "What the hell are you doing, Galindez?"

"I'm cutting you off," he says.

"Well, you know what?" I snap, "I have another bottle."

He holds out his hand. "Give me the key to your liquor cabinet."

"Not going to happen."

"Give me the key."

"No," I say definitely.

Victor grabs me by the collar and slams me up against the counter. I wince as my side connects with the marble surface.

"You're going to give me the key," he says severely; "And then you and I going to dump everything."

"You think you're man enough to make me?" I say.

If you think about it, that's a pretty stupid thing to say to a CIA-trained Marine.

"Well, we're about evenly-matched as far as skill, Clay," Victor says tightening his grip on my collar. "But you've had quite a bit to drink. That slows the reflexes. And I seem to have gotten the drop on you. So, yes, I think I'm man enough to make you."

While Victor is preening about his physical prowess, I hook my foot behind his ankle and knock him off balance. Then, I move out from between the counter and the Marine and take a step toward the door.

Suddenly, Victor lunges at me. When the full force of his body connects with mine, we both tumble through the swinging door that separates my kitchen from my living room.

I take a swing at him, and dulled reflexes or not, I manage to deck him on the jaw.

The two of us roll around on the floor, brawling like a couple of kids. During the skirmish, Victor manages to give me what I'm sure will be a lovely black eye. Then, somehow, he twists my arm behind my back and maneuvers his body so that he's holding me down.

"Now you listen to me, you stubborn spook," he says, struggling for breath, "You're my best friend. All right?"

"All right," I say, trying to push Victor off of me.

"Now, nobody else may have the guts to say this to you," he says, still holding me down, "But Clay…you're drinking too much. You're drinking to cover up your problems, and believe me…I know…it's not going to fix anything."

I stop struggling and let my body go slack. I know he's right. But what else can I do? How else can I keep going out there and doing my job? After Paraguay, everyone at the Agency patted me on the back and told me how they never could have gone through what I did. They told me they would've lost the nerve. How could I tell them that maybe I_ have_ lost the nerve?

Galindez doesn't loosen his grip, but he takes one hand and squeezes my shoulder. "You need help dealing with happened to you," he says, "Talk to me. Talk to somebody else. Either way. But I'm not going to stand by and watch you put yourself in a grave."

Defeated, I say, "Get off me first."

Victor releases me from his hold and sits down on the floor, his back leaning against the couch.

I half-crawl over and sit next to him. "You hit like a girl," I say, smirking.

He shoots me a look. "Who wound up on the floor in a vice grip?"

Undeterred, I say, "Well, like you said, dulled reflexes."

We sit quietly for a while, and then Victor holds out his hand. "Key."

"Fine," I say, reaching into my pocket for the key to the liquor cabinet.

"You know," Victor says, "I meant what I said. You have to talk to someone."

Biting my bottom lip, I nod. "Doing anything tonight?"

"Dumping your liquor cabinet."

I take in a breath, and then let it out slowly. "If you want to listen," I say wearily, "I'll talk."

Victor reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. "Okay."

Narrowing my eyes, I examine Victor's split lip. Gingerly, I reach my hand up to my own face and press the darkening place under my right eye.

My living room is a mess. During our scuffle, Victor and I managed to break one glass, overturn two plants, and dump a dish of cashews I had sitting on the coffee table.

Half-grinning, I look at Victor. Gesturing at the living room and our faces, I say, "This is going to be fun to explain to Sarah."


	10. Wounds

Title: Declaration

Spoilers: Anything up to "Hail and Farewell" is fair game.

Chapter 10

-----

Clay's living room is a mess. His empty wine glass is lying on the floor, shattered. There are bloody tissues in the trash can, and a half-melted ice pack is lying on the floor. The table is littered with an empty pizza box and the remnants of Beef Lo Mein… Ordinarily, Clay is meticulously neat. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was grabbed by some nefarious enemy.

But since I know he was with Gunny last night, I'm guessing I missed some bizarre male-bonding ritual.

Letting out a breath, I drop my purse by the door and wander around the townhouse to see what other damage the guys did last night. When I enter the kitchen, I'm practically blown out of the room by the smell of liquor. Clay's been drinking a lot, but there's no way they could've drank that much. And Gunny…well, I know he had a minor problem with alcohol himself the first time he quit the Marines, but still…

Just then, I hear the sound of the door being opened followed by loud, boisterous laughter.

I walk into the living room, hands on my hips. I'm determined to look as fierce as possible, but when I see Clay and Gunny, all pretense of anger disappears. The guys are disheveled messes—Clay has a black eye, Gunny has a split lip, and both of them look like they slept in their clothes.

When Clay sees me, he smiles guiltily and says, "Hi, honey. I'm home."

"Was there a rebel coup last night?" I ask, walking over to survey Clay's black eye.

Clay plasters on his most charming smile. "My work is classified, Sarah."

"Nice try," I say, scowling. Then I let my face soften. Pressing on Clay's shiner, I half-smile, "I guess I should see the other guy, huh?"

"Well actually," Clay laughs self-consciously, "Victor's the 'other guy.'"

I glance at Gunny, who grins, seeming more than little pleased with himself.

Letting out a breath, I shake my head, resigned. I should be mad, but I just can't. Beating each other senseless? Definitely a male-bonding thing.

Clay licks his lips self-consciously and gazes around the room. "We meant to get this cleaned up, but…we got hungry."

I gesture to the empty take-out boxes, and biting my lip to stifle my laughter, I ask, "After all that?"

"We worked up an appetite, ma'am," Gunny informs me.

"You two want to tell me what happened?" I ask.

I gather by Clay's lack of eye contact that he doesn't. Instead of answering me, he and Gunny busy themselves scooping up the debris from last night's "festivities."

"I told Kershaw I'm taking a couple of weeks off," Clay says conversationally.

"That'll last until something goes wrong somewhere in the world," I say.

Clay stops what he's doing and gazes at me. "You're turning into a cynic," he says. There's no rancor in his voice; he's just making an observation.

"I guess I am."

The three of us quietly return the living room to its former glory. Gunny is trying his best to fade into the back ground, but every now and then, I see him glance furtively at Clay.

Finally, Clay pulls himself to his feet and dusts off his pants. "Guess what," he says, "I decided to stop drinking."

"Really?" I say, trying to sound casual rather than elated.

"Yeah. The hangovers were murder anyway."

"I remember."

Clay crosses his arms. "Your hangovers or mine?"

"Both, actually," I say honestly. "Be glad you didn't know me when I was drinking."

"How about you?" Clay asks Gunny, "What kind of drunk were you?"

Gunny furrows his brow. "Well," he says after a moment, "I honestly don't remember. Which is problematic."

Clay nods, biting his lip.

After a moment of silence, Gunny says, "I think I'm going to go home and crash. Ma'am," he nods. Then he walks over to Clay and pats him on the shoulder, "Call if you need me."

As Gunny opens the door, Clay calls out, "Vic?"

Gunny stops and looks back at Clay.

Clay lets out a breath and licks his bottom lip. "I still say you hit like a girl."

Grinning, Gunny disappears out the door.

After a little while, Clay turns to me. "That's one of the reasons I appreciate Victor. He's not afraid to knock me on my ass." Clay frowns, and then says, "Well, there are a lot of people who are willing to knock me on my ass. But Victor's the only one who will help me get up afterward."

I put my arm around Clay's waist. "Are you all right?"

"No. Not really."

I'm a little surprised by Clay's honesty. Usually, he's claims to be perpetually "fine." Taking Clay's hand, I lead him over to the now-clean couch. "Why don't you tell me about it," I nudge.

Clay runs his fingers through his hair. He hesitates for a moment, and then begins, "I was always the Golden Boy of the CIA. From the beginning, that's the way it was. I moved up the ranks so fast." He glances at me. "After I met you and Rabb, some people thought I was losing perspective."  
  
"Why?"

"I always did the pragmatic thing before Rabb got a hold of me." Clay cocks his head at me. "It ironic, don't you think? Rabb's turned me into a bleeding heart, and he's the one who can't form an emotional connection."  
  
"Clayton," I sigh.

"Sure, he can bond with a dying Vietnam vet or a group of orphans he's never going to see again, but his friends?"

"Clay."

"Sorry." Clay lays his head back on the couch. "In any case, everyone was waiting for me to fail. To let my friendship with Rabb get me into serious trouble. And it did."

"And you got sent to South America."

"Yeah." Clay takes my hand. "I did the right thing giving Rabb that tape. But I don't know…I don't know. I just couldn't get my confidence back."

"But you got back into the loop."  
  
"Yeah," he says, "After Paraguay."

Clay is silent for a while. I decide not to push him. I hate it when people push me about what happened with Sadik, so I'm trying to give Clay the time to find the words for himself. When Clay's ready, he'll open up.

I hope.

"I almost got us both killed, Sarah," he finally says. He's staring at the floor, his hand still in mine.

"Clay," I say, "There's always a risk."

He sits up. "Yes, Sarah, there is. But I wasn't a hundred percent, and I knew I wasn't. If it hadn't been for you and Vic and Harm, I would've died out there. You probably would've died."

"How many times have you saved our lives?" I ask. "Clay, you're good at what you do, but you're not perfect. You can't except to be."

"That's what Victor says," Clay laughs derisively, "Well, we're just lucky that Victor's got nine lives and Harm quit the Navy in a huff."

"Clay," I say, putting my hands on Clay's shoulders, "What happened in Paraguay wasn't your fault."

Pulling me into his arms, Clay says, "It feels like it was."

"You can't blame yourself."

Clay burrows his head into the crook of my neck. "Sarah," he says, his voice shaking, "It has to be somebody's fault. If not, then it just happened."  
  
I don't follow his logic at first. Lifting his head off my neck, I take his face in my hands. "Honey, what do you mean?"

"I was…Sadik…there has to be a reason it happened." He pitches a silk throw pillow across the room. "I don't know what I'm saying."

"What?" I ask, stroking his hair, "You think what happened to you was some kind of karmic payback?"

Clay puts rubs his eyes. "There has to be a reason it happened," he repeats, practically choking his words.

Standing up, Clay snatches a book of Impressionist art off his coffee table and hurls it across the room. "Sarah, I was tortured," he says, "He tortured me." Suddenly, Clay's knees buckle and he hits the ground. Sobbing, he repeats, "He tortured me."

I sit down on the floor and wrap my arms around Clay. "I know, baby," I say, "I know."


	11. Leaving

Title: Declaration

Disclaimer: They're not mine. If they were, the show would be called "Webb-a-palooza."

Spoilers: Anything up to "Hail and Farewell" is fair game. Some key points of "Hail and Farewell" will be hinted at.

Warnings: Angst a-plenty.

Author's Notes: I'm posting this as a lead-up to the season opener. I know where I want to end up with this story, but I'm not sure if I can get there and be true to the canon. I should know soon. If not . . . we don't need no stinkin' canon.

Chapter 11

-----

I don't know why I'm standing in front of AJ's house, dripping wet. I really don't. Still, here I am, at one in the morning, no less.

Letting out a breath, my rain-soaked hand reaches up and bangs on AJ's door.

"About damn time, Webb," AJ's booming voice says as he swings open the door, "I was wondering how long you were going to stand out here. What do you want?"

What _do_ I want? Comfort? Nothing about Admiral AJ Chegwidden screams comfort. And if I did want comfort, wouldn't Sarah have been a better choice? Or Mother? Or even Victor? No, I don't suppose I'm looking for comfort. I suppose I just wanted to talk to someone who's been where I am.

"Hi, AJ," I say cordially.

AJ narrows his eyes at me. Then he takes a step back and holds open the door. "Well, come on. Get in here. It's pouring."

I take a step inside, crossing my arms tightly across my chest in a vain attempt to ward off the cold.

"You look like a wet dog," AJ says.

"Yeah, well, I feel like one."

Grimacing, AJ says, "I'll get you a towel. You look like you're freezing." As he marches off to the linen closet, he cocks his head over his shoulder. "And Webb? If you get my furniture wet, I'll toss you back outside."

I grin to myself. At least there's no pretense about AJ.

While I wait, I glance around Chegwidden's house at the various photographs that adorn the walls and shelves. There are one or two pictures of scowling Naval officers, but most of the photos are of AJ's only daughter, Francesca. One of Sarah's criticisms of my townhouse is the lack of personal artifacts. In my own defense, my rooms used to teem with family photographs and knick knacks. But after I returned home from my Agency-imposed exile, I guess I just didn't have the will to hang them back up. 

It's a good thing I didn't.

In a few minutes, AJ returns with two large towels and a cup of coffee. "Here," he says, "Get your pants and shirt off."

"Sorry, AJ," I say with a smirk, "I'm taken."

AJ glowers at me. "Funny, Webb. Strip."

After I reluctantly discard my wet clothing, AJ tosses one towel around my shoulders. Then he shoves the other towel into my hands, ushers me to his couch, and hands me the mug of coffee.

"Sorry to bother you so late," I say.

This all feels like a dream. Everything was fine. Life was perfect.

"You and Mac have a fight?" AJ asks.

"No," I say, "Actually, things between us are great. She was sleeping when I left."

Maybe this is all a dream. I'll wake up in the morning and everything will be fine.

"So," AJ says knowingly, "What's going on?"

"Life has been great lately," I say, shaking my head, "I stopped drinking. Did you know that?" What am I saying? He probably doesn't know I was drinking in the first place.

He nods. "Yeah, I heard."

I narrow my eyes. With a hoarse chuckle, I say, "What? She confides in you?"

AJ stares intently at me. "You're not the only one with contacts, Webb."

I swallow. "Well, what do your contacts say about Sarah's feelings?"

"You could ask her, Webb."

Rubbing my left temple with the ball of my hand, I let out a staggered breath. "I love her, AJ."

"I know," he says, "You and I would've already had a talk if I thought otherwise."

Without warning, my whole body begins to tremble. "I'm pretty sure she loves me," I say, "But honestly, it would be easier if she didn't."

AJ leans forward and takes the mug out of my shaking hand. "So, you're being sent away," he says calmly.

I nod, covering my face. I've been sent away before, but this is different.

"Where are you being sent?" AJ asks.

He knows I can't tell him. "Officially," I say, "Germany."

"Unofficially?"

I look up at AJ. "Germany."

'Where after that?"

"I don't know," I say honestly.

I don't know anything.

"So, the stakes are high on this one?" AJ asks soberly.

I straighten my body. "They're always high, AJ."

He nods. "So, what are you going to tell her?"

Biting my bottom lip, I mutter, "That I'm going to Germany. What else can I say to her?"

"She's going to be pissed."

"Let's just hope she gets the chance to be pissed at me." Letting out a breath, I lean back on the couch and pull the towel more tightly around my body. "AJ, when you were a SEAL," I say, swallowing, "Did you ever feel like a part of you was withering away?"

"Yeah," AJ says, nodding, "There were times I couldn't remember who I was. Sometimes, I thought I was turning into this . . . creature. To do the things I had to do, I guess I had to be somebody else."

I close my eyes. "So, did you ever get the real you back?"

"Clay," AJ says quietly, "I don't know if I ever knew who I really was."

We sit there for a minute, just staring uncomfortably at the coffee table. Finally, I clear my throat. "I'm not sure I'm going to make it back from this one."

"Dammit, Webb," AJ says, "If you go in with that attitude, you won't make it."

Rubbing my face with my hands, I say, "Sometimes you just know, AJ."

AJ gazes at me. "If something does happen, is there anything you want me to tell her?"

"There's a myriad of things, AJ," I say, "But my life is classified. More than likely, my death will be, too."


End file.
